A Chance Encounter
by pitato
Summary: Mycroft Holmes meets a strangely likeable taxi driver on the streets of Paris whilst on official business. An unlikely friendship is formed. Perhaps this Greg Lestrade is useful in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

The winter storm buffeted the little taxi as it wound its way through the chaotic assault that was Paris during rush hour. It was late afternoon – almost evening and the skies were on the verge of darkening, a dull metallic grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Inside the slightly run down taxi, it was toasty warm and comfortable as the man driving it picked his way through the streets. A half-eaten croissant in a paper bag lay at his side with a cup of coffee stuffed haphazardly in the drinks holder.

Greg Lestrade was making his way towards the 16th arrondissement. He was tired, having stayed up arguing with his ex-wife about who was going to take couch that once stood in their shared home. Combined with a pre-dawn start, it did not make for a happy man. Today he was happy to forgo larger earnings that came with picking up lost tourists and taking them absurdly short distances. He headed away from the centre of Paris where the sights and attractions were and went west towards the more opulent neighbourhoods. Here it would be quieter and he didn't mind if he got no fares tonight. Here was a man who just wanted to while away the hours until the end of his double shift.

He arrived in the wide leafy avenues that pervaded this area just as evening set in. The people here were rich – very rich and didn't often take taxis as they had their own drivers for that purpose. This neighbourhood never really did appeal to Greg; it was stuffy and slightly removed. The people kept to their own rich circles and the old buildings felt as if the life had been sucked out of them and left as testaments to their owner's wealth. However, tonight it was perfect for an exhausted taxi driver who just wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

He drove around aimlessly along the edge of the enormous park – the Bois de Boulogne that made up more than half of the arrondissement. After a few minutes, an address popped up on his receiver. It was for some hotel in the 16th. He was the only taxi in the immediate area and so he swung his taxi around and headed back where he came until he came to a stop in front of a small, but very posh looking hotel. He glanced up at the sign to double check that this was indeed the Hôtel de Saint-Michel. Greg tapped his steering wheel impatiently as he waited. A few moments later, a man stepped out from the warmly lit lobby and walked towards the taxi swinging his umbrella.

Mycroft Holmes sat on the armchair next to the fire in his hotel suite. His fingers were steepled in front of his face as his eyes drooped in the warmth of the room. The rain hammered on his window outside drumming a steady rhythm into his mind. He was here in Paris to engage with some talks with President Chaveau this week. Though "talks" was a slight misnomer – gentle persuasion with a dash of Holmesian manipulation was probably better. The damned man had pulled out at the last minute on the joint British-French arms program because of some noisy anti-war lobby group in his constituency. Mycroft massaged his temples. Sometimes he despised democracy. It made every feel like they were entitled to their own opinion. He doubted anyone in that lobby group understood the implications of an outdated weapons program. Not all nations were warmongers but citizens needed to be protected from those that were.

He would meet with the President starting tomorrow afternoon, but until then Mycroft Holmes could relax a little – keeping in mind his Blackberry had a 24 hour encrypted link with Anthea back in his office at home should some disaster arise at home. Mycroft glanced outside and saw that it was pitch black already. His usual driver Winston, was stuck sick in his room. It was quite a pain, but it seemed that he would have to take a taxi to go to dinner tonight. Mycroft usually avoided taxis as some of the drivers were unbelievably nosy to the point where he was almost tempted to kidnap them. Mycroft stood up, picked up the phone and dialled for reception.

"_Bonsoir_ _Monsieur Holmes_. How may I help you?" Said the receptionist, in impeccable English.

"_Bonsoir_. I require a taxi for tonight in about half an hour."

"Very good _Monsieur_. I shall arrange that for you straight away. Enjoy your evening."

The taxi arrived just as Mycroft stepped out of the elevator in the opulent lobby. Mycroft had stayed at the Hôtel de Saint-Michel before on his previous trips to Paris. It was luxurious, though not grandly so – it did not feel the need to scream its status at the people who stayed here unlike the huge façade of the Ritz. Comfortably sized suites, fireplaces and a homely charm that reminded him of his own townhouse in London. Set in a quiet part of Paris, away from the eternally honking taxis and the effervescence of the tourists and youth, it was perfect for the "minor" bureaucrat of the British government.

Mycroft strode across the lobby, his umbrella swinging slightly in the crook of his arm. He gave a slight nod to Pierre, the elegantly aging gentleman who manned the reception with the well-worn, understated efficiency of a man who lived and breathed hospitality. Stepping out onto the pavement, he opened his umbrella and strode towards the black taxi which was waiting. Mycroft opened the door and ducked inside expertly folding his umbrella whilst doing so.

"_Bonsoir_," said the driver who seemed to be in his forties with greying hair. Mycroft noted the accent. English. Not a native then.

"_Bonsoir Monsieur._ 29 Avenue George V please."

"English are you?" replied the driver with a slight Cockney accent as he glanced at Mycroft through the rear-view mirror.

"Yes." Mycroft replied and looked out the window, not wanting to engage in conversation with the man.

"I'm from London myself you know? Got some family down in Dorset though. My parents are here though. What about you?" The taxi driver's voice was warm and friendly and Mycroft couldn't help but reply.

"London."

"A man of few words eh?" The driver asked, a grin flashing on his face. "You'll be one of them business types then – fancy suit and all that."

"Yes. I suppose so." Mycroft said. _Oh if he only knew the truth_.

"Never really liked you kind of blokes, no offence. Making your money trampling on the backs of others. There are more honest ways of making a living. Used to be a cop myself back in the day." The driver seemed rather proud of the fact and Mycroft detected a hint of nostalgia in his tone.

"Oh really? Did you enjoy it?" Mycroft asked, for some reason genuinely interested in this complete stranger.

"Loved it. London's the place to be for a cop. None of that wishy-washy small town, who-stole-the-carrots-from-the-church-garden business. Real stuff. God it felt good chasing down a nutcase." He smiled at the memory.

"Did you ever have a case you couldn't solve?"

"Nope. Not whilst I was there. 'Course there were a few that had us stumped for a while, but we had a trump card. A bloke by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Complete nutter and drove me up the wall, but I've never come across a smarter man in my life. He had this thing where he could look at you and tell you everything about yourself – in embarrassing detail."

Mycroft looked up at the sound of his brother's name. Joining the dots wasn't too difficult then. Sherlock consulted for Scotland Yard's homicide division so this man must've worked for them. He thought back to his rare conversations with Sherlock. Sherlock had never mentioned the names of any of the Yarders that he had worked with and Anthea's background checks had never brought up anything significant. Mycroft berated himself for the security slip up. Though he knew none of the Yarders bore any threat to his younger brother, it was unlike Mycroft to miss out the details like their names. He cast his mind back and remembered the Turkey crisis that he was trying to avert at the time his brother was getting clean and using his skills more productively working for the police. However, an international crisis was not an adequate reason to neglect family, as much as Sherlock liked to insult Mycroft about his apparent lack of concern.

"So what about you? What kind of business are you in?" The taxi driver asked, ignoring the lull in conversation.

"Oh, this and that. I dabble." The driver snorted. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name?" Mycroft asked, determined to steer the conversation away from his "business".

"Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Your parents are French then?"

"Yeah. Mum and Dad moved to England before I was born. They moved back here once to retire. I met my ex-wife here on holiday. Moved here after we got married. Closer to Mum and Dad and everything."

"So you gave up your job with the police?"

"Yeah. Worst decision of my life mind you. I'm thinking I'll move back once the aftermath from the divorce settles down a bit. You married?"

"No."

"What. Never had the time? Never found the right woman?"

"I've never really felt the need."

"Fair enough. Every man for himself."

Mycroft smiled and they drove on in silence through the lit up streets.

A while later, they arrived at an expensive looking restaurant whose lights spilled onto the street. Mycroft paid Greg and told him to keep the change. He received a big smile and a nod of thanks in return. Taking his umbrella, he stepped out into the night and strode purposefully towards the restaurant. Just before he entered, he glanced back expecting to see the little rundown black taxi but it had merged into the distant traffic in the Parisian night.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft leaned back in his leather armchair exhausted from a long conversation with the Prime Minister who was currently in the United States. The man had brought up more problems that Mycroft was expected to deal with. On days like these, Mycroft questioned whether his line of work was best for him. But the doubt never lasted long. After all, who would replace him? Britain would fall in an instant without a protector in the shadows.

There was a gentle knock the door and Anthea walked in without waiting for a reply. She was expected anyway. In her hands was a tray with a full pot of tea and a few biscuits – low sugar. Mycroft was sticking to his diet as much as Sherlock liked to jibe him. He had the discipline honed from years of dealing with stubborn diplomats and downright arrogant foreign leaders.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft sounded. Even he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. There was no point hiding it – it would only waste what precious energy he had left for the day.

"My pleasure, sir. I've got the _Bastion_ file as well." She set down the tea tray and placed a file on his desk. Written on the cover in discrete black ink was "Top Secret: MH EYES ONLY". Mycroft gave Anthea a nod of thanks and she smiled and left the room.

Mycroft sighed. These past few months ever since the start of the _Bastion_ initiative with French had been an extra source of stress for Mycroft. Things seemed to stop and start – implementation delayed due to unforeseeable circumstances despite the best efforts from both countries. Mycroft flicked through the file and the words swam on the page in front of him. From what he could glean in his catatonic state, he knew it could wait until at least tomorrow morning. There was no way his mind could deal with the problem now and the warmth and soft lighting in his office wasn't helping. His eyes were straining to stay open. Mycroft picked up his phone and called for Winston, his driver. He locked the file away in his safe. Mycroft avoided bringing work home with him. It helped to keep the two parts of his life as separate as possible both physically and psychologically.

Emptying the last few dregs of tea from his cup, he slipped on his overcoat and hooked his trusty umbrella over the crook of his arm. He strode out into the London night air and into the waiting car ready to take him to his Kensington home.

Over on the other side of London, one former Detective Inspector Lestrade was busy setting up the last of the odd trinkets and ornaments in his apartment. This week had been a long one but the one good thing that arose was that Lestrade had his former job back. Dimmock was off on leave after the birth of his new son and so the department was short staffed. What better way to fill it than with an experienced cop who had once worked in that very department?

His apartment wasn't too bad, certainly much nicer than the cramped Paris bachelor pad that he was paying for on a taxi driver's wage. It wasn't too difficult leaving France, the few friends that he had made had drifted away once he had divorced Isabelle. Mum and Dad were unhappy of course, but they knew he'd be happier back in London chasing down criminals and doing his part in setting the world straight. Tomorrow would be his first day back on the job. He was almost excited to see everyone again – Anderson and Donovan who had been recently promoted to Sergeant. He was even a little bit keen to see Sherlock again who, from what he had gathered in his brief conversations with Dimmock, was still a complete arse and acted like he owned Scotland Yard.

Greg finished arranging the souvenir snow globe that was a remnant from his holiday to Florida a few years back. He stepped back to appraise the little flamingos trapped in plastic dome whilst sipping from a mug of stale coffee. That would be another thing for his "How to make apartment habitable" list. Fresh coffee.

Sitting down on the couch that was the only reminder of his ex-wife in his entire home – it was a shame to waste such a good couch, he flicked on the telly and watched the newsreader for BBC give a review of the day's stories.

"And in more news, Her Majesty the Queen has toured the offices of the Secret Intelligence Service today in Vauxhall Cross. Charles Overton has more."

Lestrade watched the news clip with mild interest as he saw the Queen dressed in a sunshine yellow dress with matching hat tour a bland set of government offices. The clip switched to a fancier looking hallway and there in the background, was a man that made Lestrade lean forward and squint. He had an umbrella hooked on his arm as he gazed at the scene unfolding in front of him. _Umbrella man_. It was strange that the "businessman" had made such a strong impression on Greg in the taxi. Perhaps it was his fancy suit and suspiciously avoidant answers. More likely he was the first person to whom Greg had voiced aloud his desire to return to England and work with the police. The man had been nice in his own strange way. And he had tipped extremely generously. _Well well,_ he thought to himself, _no wonder he was so hesitant to answer me._ _Some kind of spy or something then. _The thought of that excited him – Greg Lestrade ferrying a spy around Paris on some sort of top secret mission. He smiled to himself and tucked the story away into his memory. He'd share it the next time he and boys were down at the pub. If there was one thing the boys could count on, it was that Greg Lestrade could be relied upon for a good story.

At 221B Baker Street, the sound of a text message alert interrupted a mutilated violin concerto. Sherlock Holmes was _bored_. He picked up the phone – hoping that a serial killer had decided to start killing and saw Dimmock's name. _Dull,_ he thought to himself.

_Sherlock, just thought I'd let you know that I'm going away on leave starting tomorrow. Lestrade is back from France and is taking my place for a while. Be nice to him. He just went through a divorce. _

Sherlock skimmed the text and a feeling of elation filled him – though he would deny it later. Lestrade was back. The one officer in the entirety of Scotland Yard who was not a complete half-wit. A reliable, not completely idiotic officer who could string more than two monosyllabic words together. At least he had something to look forward to once the sun rose. And with that final thought, he picked up his bow and violin and continued to destroy Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg woke up bright and early on a frosty London morning. It was pitch black outside and he waddled around his apartment fixing himself a morning cup of coffee. A stomach turning mix of excitement and anxiety like that of a child on his first day of school was not sitting well with his bowl of porridge. This morning, Greg broke his routine in more ways than one. He redid his tie three times before giving up and choosing a different tie altogether. His hair, usually not given one thought, was combed over and over until he had to physically restrain himself. Lestrade cursed himself for waking so early but it felt so good to be back on the job.

Stepping out into the cold, he walked towards the Underground station near his apartment. Along the way he was accompanied by the other morning commuters making their way into London. He hopped onto his train and was soon being shuttled towards New Scotland Yard. He enjoyed people watching on the train to pass his time. As much as he didn't like to admit it, he had tried to apply some of Sherlock's techniques on the strangers on the train. How successful he was, he didn't know. But it was damn more entertaining than reading about how badly Scotland Yard was doing its job in the tabloids.

By the time he arrived at the shiny office building, the day had lightened and Greg smiled as he caught glimpse of the familiar façade of the building on his way into the lobby. _Christ I've missed this,_ he thought to himself.

"Greg! Good to see you mate!"

He turned and saw Bill from Human Resources striding towards him with a huge grin on his face.

"Bill! How are you, mate?"

"Good, good. It's great to have you back. Listen, me and the boys in your department are heading down to the pub after work. A little welcome back thing for you. Won't take no for an answer. See you after work!" And with that he walked off, giving Greg a wave.

Greg chuckled to himself. Bill had always been the jocular type. Loud, friendly and the life of the party – it was hard to fault the man. Greg took the lift up to his department. Thankfully, the lift was empty and he took the few seconds of respite to steel himself before he stepped into the office. The lift doors opened on a familiar hallway with its familiar carpet and slightly stale air-conditioned air. Greg made his way towards his old office that had been reassigned to him. People glanced up from their desks as he passed, some giving him a thumbs up and a cheery wave.

He opened the door only to see a familiar curly haired woman arranging some files on his desk.

"Donovan! How are you?"

She looked up and smiled, "I'm fine thanks, Sir. Good to have you back."

"Are those for me?" he said, gesturing at the pile of files on his desk. He could feel the familiar dread of paperwork take the edge off the excitement of being back on the job.

"Yep. DI Dimmock did as much as he could before he left but there's a few bits and pieces that you'll have to finish up."

"Great. First day back and I'm stuck behind my desk…"

Before Donovan could reply a shout ripped through the morning quiet of the office.

"Get out of my way! I need to see him! Anderson shut up, you lower the IQ of the entire room every time you open your mouth." The voice was a familiar baritone that Lestrade had become accustomed to. _So a few years away and you and Anderson still don't get along,_ he thought to himself.

His office door flew open and a man with black curly hair sticking up rather erratically forming a frenzied halo around his head stood impressively, framed by the doorway. His long coat was still swishing around his legs from what had obviously been a brisk, determined walk through the office as he shouted insults at the now cowering officers outside.

Sherlock took a moment to take in the scene and straightened himself.

"Lestrade," he greeted, giving Greg a curt nod.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes. Still around are you?" Lestrade replied without enmity.

"Don't lie Lestrade. You're happy to be back, though your little interlude in Paris was a complete waste of time. I told you well in advance before you married her that she was a serial adulterer. You really should have heeded my advice and broken off the marriage. It would have saved me from suffering under Dimmock's incompetence." It was typical of Sherlock to blame everything on everyone but himself.

"It seems these few years didn't make you less of a complete arse." Greg said looking amused by Sherlock's antics. "Why are you here anyway? Just popped in to say hello?"

"Hardly. I need a case."

"Sherlock. I've literally been back here for five minutes. I haven't even had the chance to sit down at my desk yet. There aren't any for you yet."

"Lestrade. I have _suffered_ for three years whilst you've traipsed around Continental Europe in search of "fulfilment". I've had to live with Dimmock who isn't qualified to commit a crime let alone solve them; Sergeant Donovan who disregards my methods; and Anderson who I doubt can spell his own name. I. Need. A. Case."

"Haven't. Got. One. Sherlock. Why don't you just be patient. I'm sure some serial killer will turn up soon." Lestrade said, already exhausted from dealing with the man.

"I've counted. It's been over six months since the last one. I need something."

"Why don't you head down to Archives and work on a few cold cases in the meantime?"

"Fine." And he left with his coat swirling behind him.

It was Donovan who broke the silence left in Sherlock's wake.

"If it's any consolation sir, DI Dimmock couldn't even get him to consider doing cold cases."

"Well, someone on this damned earth has to be able to get through to him. God I feel sorry for his mother." He had often contemplated what Sherlock's mother was like. Greg solemnly hoped to never meet the woman. She would have to be a force to be reckoned with to be able to deal with Sherlock for his entire childhood.

"Maybe he doesn't have parents. My theory is that he just popped up one day like that out of thin air. There's no way humans could have created a person like that. Anyway, I should go and you should get started on your work. Coffee?"

"Oh yeah, thanks." Lestrade said, already settling down behind his desk. Donovan gave him a small smile and left.

Greg pulled the first stack of paperwork towards him and started to read through the file. _Just like old times,_ he thought to himself.

At his office, Mycroft was having a quieter morning than most. He was absorbed in the _Bastion_ file until noon as he tried to come up with solutions to the never ending problems presented in the file. _Really_, he thought to himself_, this file is literally a list of things that have gone wrong_. Deliveries of parts had been delayed and the security team was short staffed. It made for quite an exhausting morning. But time and time again Mycroft had proved himself by being the solution to all things that went wrong inside the government. This time was no different. He would come up with something eventually.

Someone knocked at his office door.

"Come in." He said, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Sir, we've just had confirmation of Detective Inspector Dimmock's replacement. I have his file here." Anthea said placing it on his desk along with a cup of tea.

"Thank you Anthea. Really I wouldn't know what I'd do without you." Mycroft said. The woman was the most efficient assistant he had ever had – there were times when Mycroft thought she could read his mind.

"Not at all sir. I'll reschedule the meeting with the Home Secretary for this afternoon. It'll give you a bit of a break." Anthea said already walking towards the door.

"Thank you."

With a slight nod she left leaving Mycroft with yet another file in his hands. Ever since he had discovered his security lapse in Paris, Mycroft had forced himself to review all of the Scotland Yard employees that Sherlock was in contact with. He looked down at the file and flicked it open. A picture of the new Detective Inspector was inside. Mycroft did a double take. Like a well constructed building Mycroft's mind drew everything he knew and synthesised it into a clear thought. _Well, Mr Gregory Lestrade, _he thought glancing at the name, _it looks like you did make the move back to Scotland Yard. _

Mycroft felt a strange buzz of delight rush through him for a moment. As much as he liked to deny it, the taxi driver had been on his thoughts occasionally since Paris. It was usually in the quiet interlude between being awake and asleep that the man's face crept into Mycroft's thoughts. The admittedly handsome man who had the easy friendly manner that Mycroft secretly envied. Ever since he was a child Mycroft had been groomed as a Holmes – a cold, calculating machine. Undoubtedly that had its purposes and he had been satisfied by that approach to life for a long while. But in recent years, a persistent nagging had developed in the back of his head. Mycroft would find himself _almost_ longing for that one person that so many others – the mundane, nameless people of the world – had found. _Caring is not an advantage_. That had been his father's words and as such, those words had become his when Mycroft came of age. He had caught himself doubting that phrase more and more recently.

Mycroft looked down at DI Lestrade's file. From the list of past cases that he had been assigned before he left, it looked like he spent a considerable time with Sherlock. He took note of that. If this policeman could withstand Sherlock for a prolonged amount of time, perhaps there was more to him than the easy-going fellow who had driven his taxi. At the very least, dealing with his insufferable younger brother took a great deal of patience and determination. Mycroft had learned that the hard way over his lifetime.

Perhaps this man could be useful in more ways than one. Mycroft made a memo to himself to arrange a little "chat" with DI Gregory Lestrade as soon as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

After two weeks of regular police work, new cases and nearly resorting to murdering Sherlock more than once, Greg had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The last of the cardboard boxes full of his things were gone and everything had found its proper place in his new apartment. Even the dirty dishes were starting to pile up now that the novelty of having a new, clean apartment had faded. Back to the way it was before the "French shenanigan" as he called it in his head.

He was on his way home from a good day's work having just finished up a regular run-of-the-mill murder (a jealous ex-wife had _almost_ got away). He got off at the Undergound station near his apartment and started a leisurely stroll down the street. It was empty and evening had already set in. He walked for a while and noticed an uneasy feeling developing in the pit of his stomach. The back of his neck prickled and he turned around. The street was completely deserted save for a few parked cars. But one stood out amongst the others. A sleek, nondescript black car that obviously belonged to someone with serious money. It was parked, engine idling and the windows tinted too dark to see who was inside. Shivering slightly, Greg kept walking though keeping an eye on the car through the corner of his vision. It drove slowly to follow him, the soft rumble of the engine being the only noise on the street.

Greg stopped and turned around again. The car stopped. He set off again, faster this time. His heart was hammering and the ice-cold grip of fear had settled around his chest. His breathing quickened. The car was slowly inching its way up the street, creeping like a tiger about to pounce. Greg had enough. He needed to get back onto the main road away from the empty street where no one could see him. Lestrade broke into a run, only to stop after a few metres. A man in a three-piece suit had stepped out of a little alleyway in front of him. His face was in shadows and he was leaning casually on his umbrella.

"What the hell do you want?" Greg demanded, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

"Tut tut Detective Inspector. I was hoping that we could have a little chat." The man said, twirling his umbrella slightly.

"So you chase me down a street with your car?"

"I believe the proper term is "ambush". Quite a good one don't you think?" The ambient light from the city (as the street lights had mysteriously turned off) reflected off the man's teeth as he flashed a small smile.

"How do you know who I am?"

A chuckle emanated from the shadows. "How do I know anything Detective Inspector? The same way I know you work for the Homicide Division of Scotland Yard. I know you left for France to be with your wife – a poor decision it seemed as you moved back to England less than three years later. And now here you are at your old post with Scotland Yard. Almost like nothing ever happened."

"Who the fuck are you? If you know who I am, then you should know better than to mess with a copper."

"Ah Detective. I am merely a concerned party. Tell me, how is Sherlock Holmes doing these days?"

"What? What do you want with him?" Lestrade replied, feeling more and more uneasy as the conversation proceeded. This man had a knack for directing the conversation whichever way he wanted. Greg just helplessly tagged along.

"Like I said, I am a concerned party."

"And he concerns you?"

"Oh absolutely. Constantly."

"What are you? Some kind of stalker? What kind of sick fucker are you?" Greg asked, his fear turning into anger.

"I'm here to offer you a proposal. I would very much like it if you could update me on Sherlock's wellbeing in return for _ample_ compensation."

"You're bribing me to spy on Sherlock?"

"Well, only if I have to. I would very much prefer this to be something of a mutual agreement and understanding," he said delicately.

"No way. I have no idea who you are or what you want. There's no way I'm betraying a friend like that."

The man chuckled again. "Friend? Are you sure Detective Inspector? I was under the impression that you rather disliked him. If I may indulge myself, I believe you called him a "pompous trumped up idiot" in one of your interdepartmental emails. Hardly the phrasing I would use if Sherlock were a friend."

"He's a damn better man than you are." Lestrade replied.

"Is there anyway at all I could tempt you to accept my offer?"

"No." Greg said, ending all further conversation.

"Very well. If I cannot convince you, I must wish you good evening. I do hope we can meet again soon in more amicable circumstances." He gave a slight nod and got into the waiting car. In the flash of light between the shadows cast by the buildings, Lestrade caught a glimpse of the face of the man who had ambushed him. It was one he wasn't likely to forget now that he had seen it twice. _Umbrella man_. Before he could call out to the man, the car had sped off into the night leaving Greg to take a solitary walk home lost in his thoughts.

Mycroft closed his eyes as he sat in the dark interior of the car. The meeting had not been a complete failure. He had never expected Lestrade to comply to his request given what he had read in the policeman's file. But Mycroft preferred to gauge people face to face or in this case face to shadow. It was undeniable that Detective Inspector Lestrade was a remarkable man – he managed to see the good in Sherlock. Mycroft had never met anyone who could see past his brother's immaturity and blatant disregard for authority.

The meeting had been most enlightening and only increased Mycroft's interest in Gregory Lestrade. A good, honest man. It was hard to find those in Mycroft's line of work. Quite the refreshing change. Mycroft Holmes decided right there and then that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was worth befriending.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days later Lestrade made his way to Sherlock's apartment. He had resolved to sort out Sherlock's mystery spy stalker problem once and for all. Greg walked up the stairs two steps at a time and knocked on Sherlock's door. It swung open to reveal a tousle-haired man with a slight manic expression on his face.

Lestrade inspected the consulting detective. "Sherlock. When was the last time you slept?"

"Unimportant Lestrade. Is this why you came to see me? To check up on my sleeping habits? Really, every time I think that you might not be as idiotic as the rest you prove me wrong." Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to close the door.

Lestrade stopped him and forced himself into the flat. "I only came to talk to you about a problem I'm having."

"What problem? Has the department finally found out that you came to work hungover last week?"

Lestrade groaned internally. If Sherlock knew, it would only be a matter of time before he used it to weasel a favour out of him. "No. It's not that. I wasn't even _that_ hungover. The other night some bloke ambushed me in the middle of the street and asked me about you."

"Me? Who was he?" Sherlock seemed surprised.

"That's just it. I have no idea who he is. But I recognised him. Back in Paris I drove him round in my taxi and I saw him on the telly a few weeks back too. He's with MI6 I think – some sort of spy?"

"When was this taxi ride in Paris?"

"Err…November I think?" Lestrade replied, unsure as to why this was important

"Did this mysterious man offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yeah. I didn't accept it – how do you know this? Has this happened before?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock practically spat the name out of his mouth.

"Sorry? Who?" _What kind of name was Mycroft?_ thought Lestrade.

"I'm sorry to say Lestrade but you are in the most unenviable position of having met my older brother."

"Your what?" Greg asked, completely taken aback. He had no idea that Sherlock had a brother.

"Oh yes. He has a tendency to be overly dramatic with all the kidnappings and what not. He worries about me." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought.

"I gathered. But he's fucking insane like you. Why couldn't he just give me a call? How the hell did he know who I was?"

"He's the British Government," came reply, as if it were obvious.

"What?" Lestrade spluttered.

"Mycroft has always been attracted to grandeur. He will tell you his job is a 'minor role in the British Government' but he's much more than that. He basically runs the country."

"Fuck. You Holmes' are crazy you know that? I have to deal with you already, and now I have to deal with two of you, one of which is running the country? God help me." Lestrade muttered, sighing with exasperation.

"Well, if that's all you came to do, you may leave now. I'm busy." Sherlock shooed him from the room.

Lestrade blinked as the door slammed in his face. From the other side he could hear dull thuds smack into the door. Sherlock seemed to have taken up archery after hearing one of his officers mention it last week. He'd have to have a word with the people at the office. Sherlock was dangerous enough without giving him ideas for violent past-times.

Two weeks had passed since Lestrade had gone to Sherlock about Mycroft. It was again a dreary January afternoon in London and the cold was worming its way into Lestrade's coat. He was currently surrounded in a swathe of police tape and the lights on their cars were flashing. Curious passersby were hurriedly shooed away by some of the lower ranked police officers. This case had been an interesting one. A homeless man had been killed out of cold blood. They had all been stumped as to who the culprit was and had no idea what the motive could be. Of course once Sherlock had found his way onto the case it was apparently "obvious" that it was a revenge killing caused by some turf war. All that from dirt under the victim's shoes and the tan line around his neck.

Sherlock had long made his dramatic exit complete with coat swirl from the crime scene. Lestrade was overseeing the crime scene clean up and the last few routine details that needed to be sorted out. It had been a long day dealing with the murder and Sherlock who had been particularly obstinate lately.

He glanced around, checking that everything was going to order. In the distance a little way down the street was a man standing in the light drizzle with his umbrella up. Though it was too far away to see his face, Lestrade immediately knew who it was.

Lestrade waved his second in command over. "Donovan! Keep things running for me. I'll be back in a mo'."

He walked over to the man waiting for him.

"Fancy seeing you here. I talked to Sherlock about you." Lestrade said.

"So I've been told." Mycroft said delicately.

Lestrade studied the man in front of him. He was wearing yet another three piece suit and accompanied by the ever-present umbrella. Mycroft had quite fine features, not unlike his brother though he wasn't shockingly thin like Sherlock. His reddish hair was receding slightly and he was groomed to perfection. Whilst Sherlock was a whirling tornado that left destruction in its wake, Mycroft was a solid rock of calm in a raging ocean oozing power and confidence. The calm stare that was slowly drilling its way into Greg's head was slightly unnerving.

"What do you want?" Lestrade asked.

"I merely wanted to apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. I had to see if you were trustworthy." Mycroft gave a little bow in apology.

"Right. And ambushing me was your answer to that?"

"Most people are more truthful when placed in uncomfortable circumstances."

"So you just came here to apologise. 'Scuse the French but that's bullshit."

"Was that a pun Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, with a hint of a smile.

Lestrade chuckled. "I guess. The last time I properly talked to you was in Paris."

"Yes. I was intrigued when you mentioned Sherlock in the taxi and I took it into my own hands to read up on you. It seems you were quite the successful policeman before moving overseas."

Lestrade nodded. "It's good to be back. Paris was a miserable place what with the divorce and all. But seriously, don't change the subject. What do you want?"

"I simply wanted to properly introduce myself. And perhaps ask you to reconsider my offer that I posed to you a few weeks ago. This time without the money. I simply want to know that you are looking out for my younger brother. He can be rather… difficult despite my best surveillance efforts."

"You spy on your own brother? He told me you ran the British Government," Lestrade interjected.

"Sherlock's words, not mine Detective Inspector. I merely occupy –"

"A minor position in the British Government. Got it." Lestrade interrupted with a touch of sarcasm.

"Exactly." Mycroft said, smiling slightly. "I have … certain privileges that come with the job. One of which is being able to watch over my brother without interfering with him too much."

"So you want me to just keep an eye on him?"

"I worry about him constantly Detective Inspector. He is family after all."

Lestrade considered the offer. Mycroft was a tad insane, but there was method in his madness. It all came down to family in the end.

"Fine. I'll keep an eye on him. But no more of this ambushing business. I'll give you my number, you can call me during _normal_ hours." He had too much experience with Sherlock's inability to understand the way society normally functioned. He couldn't risk it with Mycroft though the older brother seemed much more grounded.

"There is no need Detective Inspector. I already have your number. However, I would like you to have mine." He reached into his pocked and pulled out a small business card and handed it to Lestrade. It was a pale cream coloured card on which was printed "Mycroft Holmes" with his number underneath. Nothing more. No occupation, office address, qualifications. Nothing. _Not that it's surprising_, thought Lestrade.

"Are there any other questions?" Mycroft asked.

"Err… no. I'm good." Lestrade replied.

"Very well. Then I bid you good afternoon Detective Inspector."

"Please, call me Greg." He said holding out a hand.

"Mycroft." They shook hands and with a small nod Mycroft turned and walked to waiting black car with tinted windows. He stepped inside and gave Lestrade a small wave before closing the door. The car drove off leaving Lestrade standing in the bitter cold with the light drizzle soaking into his clothes.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for everything so far! I'm sorry if it's a bit slow at the moment. It will get better!


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